The Honest Thief
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Yorkshire, 1173. Having lost his place at court, Sherlock Holmes is obliged by his brother to forsake his beloved London and marry an heiress in the far away North. It is, as far as he's concerned, a fate worse than death. On his way to be wedded to this creature however he encounters an outlaw, one who seems awfully curious about him... Medieval AU, rating has been raised.
1. The Honest Thief

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Part one of two, enjoy!

* * *

 **THE HONEST THIEF**

* * *

 _Dalby Forest_

 _The London-Yorkshire Road_

 _1173_

By the time the carriage has come entirely to a halt, Sherlock has already found his blade and is prepared for his attacker.

He's also hidden his engagement gift inside the seat on which he's sitting.

(He may think his prospective bride boring and insipid but that's no reason to allow the insult of her engagement present being stolen).

Thus, when the vehicle's doors open and he is ordered roughly out he feels no fear, merely a slight elevation of his pulse, the flush of anticipated battle. He hops down to the ground easily, cocking an eyebrow at his scarlet-clad assailant and showing him the stiletto blade clutched in his hand even as he smiles at him.

This smile is not, it must be said, an entirely pleasant sight.

As he does this his eyes rake over his attacker, taking in the loose, thick leggings and tunic, the thick, woollen mantle. A hood obscures the other man's face- a foolish choice, cutting off one's peripheral vision, Sherlock sniffs- whilst a heavy, curved eastern blade hangs at one hip. A vicious-looking billy-club hangs at the other. The wolfs-head is small, lithe. Lean. _More boy than man, clearly_. He's carrying a quiver of arrows on his back and another, concealed blade in his boot, Sherlock can tell, though he sees no reason to say that aloud.

 _What one chooses not to say is often as important as what one chooses to say, he knows._

The boy handles the longbow he has pointed at Sherlock with the ease of one familiar in its usage; as Holmes ascends he moves back, keeping an entirely too clever degree of distance between himself and his target. This is not, Sherlock thinks, the first time that this man has held someone at arrow-point and at the thought he feels a slight sliver of unease.

Not being the kind of man to scare easily however Holmes holds his hand up before him, his expression mockingly sympathetic.

"Please," he says in a bored tone. "Please don't hurt me. I have so much to live for."

At his words he hears the outlaw gives a snort which sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

"I rather thought you'd go for, "not the face, not the face," he says wryly. His accent is thick Yorkshire. "After all, it's such a pretty visage."

And he sketches Holmes a mocking curtsy, his weapon never leaving its target.

Instantly Sherlock narrows his eyes; The other man's trying to force his voice lower than his natural register, he realises, something which suggests it hasn't broken yet and he is, indeed, rather young.

At the thought Sherlock feels a stab of irritation, knowing that as new High Sherriff he will be forced to bring this young boy to justice for his actions here to day, a justice which will probably include a public hanging-

As if reading where his mind had gone the lad lowers his bow, cocking his head quizzically at the older man.

"You've not caught me yet," he says. "You may wait until you do so before you start grieving for my execution."

Sherlock is surprised that he had guessed the direction his thoughts had taken but manages to cover it with a shrug. "It merely seems a pity," he says, "to see one so young reduced to thievery."

There's a smile in the boy's voice now.

"Oh, there's plenty reduced to thievery in this part of the world, Sir," he says, "there's just few of us are honest enough to admit it."

Sherlock scoffs. "And is that what you are?" he asks. "An honest thief?"

The wolfs-head nods. "The most honest and gentle thief in all of Christendom, milord."

And with that he nods to someone over his shoulder, someone Sherlock hadn't even noticed. It is, Holmes must admit, a stupid mistake to have made- After all, someone would have had to overpower and deal with his coachman. Sherlock sees a blur of movement at the corner of his eye and ducks, only to knock himself head-long into a billy-club blow from his young attacker. Pain explodes behind his eyelids, annoyance at himself and his own lack of observation making it all so much more unpleasant than necessary-

He loses his balance, swinging for his assailant as he goes down and there's another, sharper blow to his head. It's so bright he sees stars, then nothing… Though he has the vague sensation of being carried.

His last conscious thought is of his brother's voice, informing him that he's still the family idiot and for once he has to agree.

* * *

When Sherlock awakes, he's sitting, knees bound to his chest and back bound to a tree.

He would also appear to be wearing very little clothing, his tunic, boots and cloak having been taken.

 _It is, he has to admit, one of the trickier situations in which he's woken up._

At the thought he scowls darkly, takes stock of his surroundings. He's deep in the forest now, probably far away from the road and any inconvenient travellers. A thick, heavy blanket has been draped over him and there's a fire near enough to offer some warmth, but other than that no attempt has been made to secure his comfort.

No, rather his wrists and ankles are tied tightly together and thence to one another, the ropes cunningly interwoven so that pulling on one will cause pain to the bodily area binding the other. It makes the possibility of wriggling loose rather a long shot, he muses, begrudgingly impressed with the forethought which had gone into it.

As he thinks this he hears light footsteps, cranes his neck to see his assailant from earlier pad silently into the circle of the fire's light. He's still wearing his hood up and carrying all of his weapons.

Sherlock cannot help but feel that this bespeaks an irritating degree of common sense- The cad.

"So, Master Holmes," he says, still trying to keep his voice low and gruff. "You have deigned to honour us with your presence."

Sherlock pointedly ignores the jibe. If the lad wanted his scintillating banter then he shouldn't have knocked him unconscious, now should he? "So you know who you've kidnapped," he says instead. "Or rather, you think you do-"

The lad looks at him, head cocked.

He crosses his arms over his chest, apparently amused.

"Oh," he says mildly. "I know well who you are, milord. Guillaume, youngest son of Alice, Baroness of Beckley. Known to his friends- many of whom are of questionable provenance and virtue- as Sherlock. Brother to his Majesty's Spy-Master General, Lord Mycroft and that brother's pet folly at the moment, which is why he used his influence to have you posted here in Yorkshire and removed from London."

The boy sketches him a bow, hands gesturing in an invitation to applaud.

"Have I left anything out?"

Sherlock scowls at the boy. He refuses to show any discomfort at the fact that his captor knows so much about him. "You're awfully well-informed for a mere wolfs-head," he sniffs.

At the insult the boy laughs.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe how informed I am, milord," he says. "But then, I find information of all sorts is there for the finding- You just have to be willing to look for it."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "So you've heard of my… reputation," he says carefully and again the boy nods.

This time it appears almost… eager.

"Aye, that I have," he says. "Though I must admit, you didn't seem terribly observant when we took you today." He shrugs. "I expected more sport, to be honest with you."

Sherlock flushes, feeling he sting of the observation sharply. With all his fame as the King's secret-finder and strategist, he really shouldn't have been so easy to capture.

"Yes, well, I have a great many matters of import weighing on my mind," he says begrudgingly- And he does.

 _Being effectively sold as a groom to the highest bidder and having to leave London for the bog-arse end of nowhere will do that for a man._

The boy saunters over to him though, hunkers down, just out of the reach of his arms and legs should Sherlock prove able to get them loose.

"And what might be distracting you?" he asks slyly. "Your loss of royal favour? Your being dispatched to the wildest, most rebellious shire in all England?"

He snickers.

"Or does something else vex that famous mind of yours, eh?"

Sherlock glares at his captor in open scorn. "If you're speaking of my marriage then simply ask," he says sharply. "I'm not the first younger son married off to a rich wife and I won't be the last."

At this the boy seems to still. Despite the fact that he can't see his face, Sherlock has the distinct impression he's… frowning now.

 _What an odd reaction_ , he thinks.

"You do not sound fond of your future wife," the boy says. "Surely you have not met her yet- What can you know of her?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "There's nothing I _need_ know of her," he bites out tartly. "Lady Margaret is- apparently- pretty, rich and docile, just like every other gentle-woman in the country. The perfect lady and wife, just waiting for me to plight my troth and start reproducing willy-nilly."

He gives a (rather theatrical) shudder.

The boy seems even more confused however. "And that is a mark against her?" he asks curiously. "That it is said she will make a good wife?"

Sherlock can't help his snort of disdain this time. "Of course it's a bloody mark against her!" he snaps. "Do you think any intelligent man wants some simpering girl-child wandering about and dogging his steps when he could be off doing things and solving problems and, I don't know, _enjoying_ _himself?"_

He snorts.

"Of course not- Such women are eminently useless, my dear Master Thief.

"I want none of them."

And he glares at the boy, irritated with him for bringing up so sore a subject as his marriage. Were he were capable of crossing his arms right now, Sherlock knows he'd be crossing them with a vengeance but as it stands, he can merely pout.

He rather wishes it were more effective but we work with what we have.

The boy is still staring at him though, head cocked. His air might best be described as speculative. As Sherlock watches he leans forward, placing one hand on the wood beside Holmes' head and bracing his weight on it, the action bringing him face to face with his prisoner.

His eyes burn beneath his hood.

His breath fans Sherlock's face.

"So you would not have a docile wife?" he asks and it's the strangest thing but his voice sounds deeper now. Husky almost. If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd swear he could hear… arousal in it.

It is an arousal which Sherlock belatedly realises he can, mortifyingly, match.

He is not particularly happy with this realisation.

Holmes nods though, suddenly feeling discombobulated. Uncomfortable. Only Victor and Irene have ever previously been able to elicit such a response from him and that was when he was young. He had rather thought he'd outgrown his libido when he'd settled on his vocation at court.

And yet-

"If I must have a wife," he says quietly, "-and it is not a thing of which I am at all convinced- then I would have one who has a mind and a will of her own. One who can stand on her own two feet. One who knows who she is without looking to me to tell her…"

"You want a woman, not a wife."

And the boy's gloved hand comes up to stroke Sherlock's face, his thumb lingering slightly over his lip. The feel of the leather against his skin makes Sherlock shiver and suddenly the tension in his bonds seems almost pleasant. Wanted.

Without his quite willing it to, his tongue moves out to wet his lip.

The boy doesn't move away, doesn't flinch, merely stares at him. He leans in closer, head cocked to one side, the hand at Sherlock's mouth sliding up to trace the hollow of his cheekbone. To tip his face upwards and to the side. It skims over his nose, the arch of his eyebrow before curling in his hair. Tugging it gently. Time seems to elongate, the silence of the night and the fire wrapping around them both as Sherlock stares at his captor and then suddenly…

Suddenly…

Suddenly the boy presses his mouth gently to his.

It's a kiss that's also a question.

A sigh sounds and Sherlock can't be sure which one of them produces it, it's so quiet. So soft.

His fingers tighten against his palms and he finds himself wishes fervently that they were free.

The boy's lips move against his, hesitant and gentle and yet somehow insistent too. This seems like a first kiss, perhaps for both of them, though Sherlock knows it should not feel so. Be that as it may though, he feels his own body clamour and warm in response, the pleasure of what's being done to him setting heat sliding slowly through to his very bones, his fingertips. It feels like there's a thunderstorm beneath his flesh, a rising gale of delight and passion-

And then, just as suddenly as he started the kiss the boy ends it. Pulls away.

There's a twist of loss within Sherlock at the action though he knows it makes no sense at all.

He notes, somewhat distractedly, that they're now both breathless.

"Get some sleep," the boy says and then he stands. Walks away from him.

When he reaches the other side of the fire he finally pulls his hood down and Sherlock sees a long, dark plait shaken loose. Sees two dark- and entirely feminine- eyes looking at him, the cloak pushed away to reveal a tunic, leggings… and a pair of small, womanly breasts. A female figure.

 _Well,_ he thinks _. I'll be damned._

For he is struck with surprise to realise that his captor- his _female_ captor- has managed to fool him all this time and once again he hears Mycroft's voice in his head, telling him he's an idiot. Again, he finds himself agreeing.

"No harm will come to you," his captor says, "but you'd best try to rest now."

She disappears into the trees and though Sherlock tries to stay awake he doesn't see her return, even when the dawn comes.

When he wakes he's lying in the forest, still covered in that blanket; His clothes and the rope used to tie him are piled neatly beside him, his bride's gift placed upon them like a jewel in a ring's setting.


	2. The Absent Bride

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Katya Jade, Moonunit, cath100, Aphraelsan, applejacks0808, shazzykins, Monirosez, Buttercup59, Bekah1218, Danielle and my mystery guest. This is the penultimate chapter- there's a little more teasing before we get to the good stuff- so enjoy!

* * *

 **THE ABSENT BRIDE**

* * *

 _Skipton_

 _North Yorkshire_

 _The Next Day_

The rest of the journey passes without incident, much to Sherlock's disappointment.

No more outlaws appear, no kidnappers.

They don't even encounter heavy rain.

Instead, the sun shines with a most unexpected (and irritating) brightness, so much so that Sherlock and his coach make good time and arrive at the gates of his would-be father-in-law's castle a full half day sooner than expected.

He is not terribly pleased by this.

Rather than dwell on his irritation however he pushes the thought away. Tries to focus. If he is unsuccessful in that- if a pair of warm, brown eyes and a wool-clad female body interfere- then he's certainly not of a mind to admit it to himself.

 _Or anyone else_.

Instead he turns his thoughts to his new home. As the carriage pulls up to Skipton Castle's formidable gate-house Sherlock feels a twinge of unease, looking up at the structure's massive walls. He must be living in wild country indeed, he muses, to make so impressive a fortification necessary. _The damn thing makes the Tower of London look positively quaint._ Of course he'd known that Yorkshire, with its closeness to Scotland, was far more contested territory than any in his native London but still…

To see such evidence of it, that is sobering. Very, very sobering.

He finds himself wondering, perhaps for the thousandth time, what on Earth Mycroft was thinking by sending him here.

 _That his brother may have made a good decision in doing so is not a notion he is willing to entertain._

So he pushes it too from his mind. Focuses again on the task at hand. News of his arrival must have been sent ahead for when he alights from the carriage the gate-keeper has already opened the massive portcullis and doors, as well as sending a young boy out to fetch Sherlock's things.

The lad is curly-haired and bright-eyed, and when he looks at Sherlock his expression turns excited. He opens his mouth, obviously about to ask a question of the Londoner, but before he can a loud, sharp whistle halts him.

"Archie," a male voice barks. "Spare our guest your questions and bring his things inside, there's a good lad."

The boy bobs his head- "Of course, Master Gregory,"- before picking up Sherlock's belongings and scrambling back towards the gate-house.

Sherlock's coachman follows after him, doubtless longing for a drink and the sort of hot meal he hasn't enjoyed in days.

As they enter the castle two men pass them, one tall, tanned and grey-haired, the other white-haired and powerfully built. They grey-haired man wears a heavy leather jerkin, a large ring of keys at his hip; Sherlock suspects he is the castle Man-At-Arms. Judging by the finery which his white-haired companion wears Sherlock feels confident in assuming that this is the castle's lord, the man whose daughter he's here to marry. His future- _God help him_ \- father-in-law.

A slightly uncomfortable beat stretches out.

"Lord Hopville," he says, inclining his head. "It is an honour to meet you."

And he sketches a quick bow and smiles as best he can at the man, for once willing to try and make a good impression. (If he's to be one of this man's family soon then this will prove important indeed).

The older man's eyes rake over him with desultory, insulting quickness however and Sherlock is forced to bite back a tart response to such dismissiveness.

 _It's not as if he's used to it._

"Well," Lord Hopville announces, addressing his companion rather than his guest. "My daughter will be pleased by that bonny face at least, eh, Gregory?"

And he lets out a great, guffawing laugh, grinning at his own witticism.

Sherlock- in what he suspects will become an ongoing battle- reminds himself not to insult his would-be father-in-law to his face even as the grey-haired man smiles.

It's a slight, uncomfortable thing, that smile.

Apparently he has more manners than his master, Sherlock muses- _Not that such a thing would appear to be difficult._

"The lady Margaret will be pleased by your choice, no matter what her husband looks like," Gregory says smoothly, stepping forward and holding his hand out to Sherlock in greeting. "Welcome to Skipton, milord," he adds. "I'm Gregory de la Strade, Master-at-arms for the castle."

He gestures around him in a sweeping motion.

"You must forgive us, but we did not expect you until nightfall, at least. The servants are scrambling to ready your quarters as we speak and Cook's not best pleased with having to hurry- So all the servants are, of course, staying well clear of her."

Sherlock smiles at the joke, takes his offered hand and shakes. Nods. There's something about the man that sets him at his ease. "A pleasure to meet you," he says. "I thank you for your welcome- Even if I am premature in my arrival and causing bother."

He doesn't mention that Gregory's greeting is far superior to the one his host has given him, but then he is perfectly cognizant that such a thing doesn't need to be said aloud.

An awkward silence stretches out- Sherlock expects Lord Hopville to break it but he doesn't- before Gregory slaps him lightly on the shoulder and gestures to the castle keep.

"Come inside, milord," he says. "I'm sure you're hungry, and you'll be wanting to take a look around the place no doubt."

Sherlock nods. "No doubt."

Gregory shoots him a wry smile. "And you'll be wanting to meet Lady Mol- That is to say, Lady Margaret, as well, no doubt."

"No doubt to that too." This time Sherlock is aware that his smile has dimmed somewhat however. "I mean-" He clears his throat, tries to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. "I mean that that would, of course, be delightful."

The sentiment comes out rather more sarcastically than he intended but though Gregory's eyes twinkle in amusement, Lord Hopville did not, apparently, hear it.

"Then let us get you inside, milord." Gregory says. "No point in keeping you- Or the Lady Margaret- waiting."

And with another, friendly grin he leads Sherlock through the gatehouse and into the bailey, asking him about his trip and how he has found the county thus far as Lord Hopville trails disinterestedly behind them.

Sherlock speaks of the weather, and of the scenery and even of what gossip he can safely repeat from the court in London.

Strange to report, however, he doesn't mention his attacker on the road through Dalby Forest. Nor does he mention her lovely brown eyes. Her boldness. Her gender.

Her kissing him.

He can offer no legitimate reason for keeping it a secret but he still doesn't speak of it, to Gregory or anyone else.

* * *

They enter the castle but Lady Margaret doesn't appear.

She's ill apparently- a small cold- though she bids Sherlock welcome and assures him she'll be able to meet him tomorrow.

 _She's awfully, awfully sorry that she can't see him today._

Though he knows he shouldn't be, Sherlock can't help the tiny tremor of relief which goes through him at the news. While he may not be able to put this ghastly matter off for long a day's reprieve feels like a gift.

So he nods at the news. Feigns disappointment.

He's not sure either Lord Hopville or Gregory de la Strade believe him.

Sherlock makes his way to newly-opened his apartments, Lady Margaret dismissed from his thoughts even as a certain other woman dominates them.

 _A certain, law-breaking, stranger-kissing woman._

He can't find it in himself to feel guilty about it, even when under his future bride's roof.

* * *

There's a feast that night and it is, as all feasts are, absolutely tedious.

Still, it has been impressed upon Sherlock from birth that one must engage with one's peers- _however stupid they are_ \- especially when one is in an entirely new and potentially dangerous environment, and this is what Sherlock does.

He charms.

He sweet-talks.

He feigns interest in idiocy with a virtuoso-like skilfulness.

It is every bit as mind-numbingly boring as such feasts are in London and that, he knows, is saying something… But still he persists.

 _He can't help but feel that his Mother would be rather proud of him, were she here._

And besides, if he's being honest there _are_ at least a couple of guests at the feast who seem… Slightly less than stupid. Interesting, even. Gregory de la Strade is one of them, the man's stories of Yorkshire's recent difficulties and rebellious tendencies providing at least some entertainment.

He's particularly enlightening on the subject of an outlaw he's nicknamed The Scarlet Fox whom Sherlock suspects he's already encountered, though he keeps this suspicion to himself.

Another such personage is Lady Mary Watson, a visiting relative of Lady Margaret's who is apparently here to help usher the young heiress through her wedding. When this woman speaks of she and her husband's travels through the continent her eyes light up and her voice lilts with merriment, reactions which Sherlock finds both pleasant and peculiarly soothing. The only point during the evening in which she falls silent is when she explains to Gregory where her husband is-

Apparently he has been sent over the border to Scotland by Lord Hopville, an envoy in what Sherlock thinks sounds a foolish quest.

"He'll be home in no time, no doubt," she says lightly but though he does not know her well, Sherlock cannot help but think that she is lying.

He does her the courtesy of not making his belief known however.

"John's a resourceful man," Gregory tells her stoutly. "He'll not fall pray to William the Lion, you'll see." And he nods to her, pours her more wine.

The blond woman smiles, trying to look cheerful though it doesn't touch her eyes.

"I pray God you are right," she says, raising her cup in toast before turning her attention to Sherlock.

It's obvious she wants no more talk of her husband.

"But what about you, milord?" she asks. "I'm afraid I've been monopolising the conversation somewhat- How have you found Yorkshire thus far?

"And what kind- and entirely deserved, by the way- words do you have for our Molly?"

And she grins at him over the rim of her goblet.

Sherlock blinks in surprise, unused to such open flirtation from someone he doesn't know well.

His mind scrambles to provide an answer which will be thought sufficiently charming but nothing comes.

He settles for being almost honest.

"I had rather the same journey here that anyone else has," he says quietly. Lady Mary's grin widens to an almost cheeky degree and despite himself, he returns it. "As for Lady Margaret- whom I assume you're referring to as Molly- I'm afraid I haven't yet met her, though I'm assured she a veritable nonpareil-"

Lady Mary frowns though. "You've not encountered her yet?" she asks.

She looks at Gregory askance, who shrugs.

Suddenly he's rather fascinated by his mead.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I had expected to meet her with her father today," he says, "but she informed me that she's poorly and shall not be up to company."

He hopes that his relief at this doesn't show; he's not sure how his hosts will take it, his not being overly eager to meet his wife to be.

Lady Mary seems slightly… disturbed by this news, though she's trying not to show it.

"Well, no doubt she'll be happy to meet you tomorrow, milord," she says eventually, her tone only slightly distracted. It would fool someone, Sherlock muses, who wasn't paying the sort of attention he pays. "In the mean time, let me assure you that she is an absolutely lovely creature, the very jewel of the county…"

Gregory snorts in amusement. "I thought that was you?"

Lady Mary shrugs. "Yorkshire is an awfully big county, Gregory," she points out primly. "There's more than enough room for the both of us."

Both Gregory and Sherlock smile and she beams, looking mischievous. Once again it occurs to Sherlock that he rather likes both she and the castle's Man-At-Arms. He spends the rest of the night chatting with both, smiling more in their company than he has during his last six months in London...

It's very late when he finally makes his way back to his quarters, his head pleasantly muffled with alcohol- Which is why he gets all the way into his room without realising it's already occupied by the self-same, lovely wolfs-head he met on the road through Dalby Forest.

 _And it would appear that she's rather pleased to see him._


	3. The Scarlet Fox

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to RainyDay12, Moonunit, kraftykathy, Katya Jade, Sammykatz, Rosa Calletti, Aphraelsan, shazzykins, LadydeBalliol, Buttercup59 and likingthistoomuch.

This was initially going to be the last chapter but I realised it needed one more, so that will be the last chapter. Also, remember when I said that this would contain *mild kink*? Well... The kink's not so mild anymore. Or so fluffy. Seriously people: **Be aware that there's some kinky smut ahead** which is why **I've raised the rating**. If it squicks you, wait until the next chapter to find out what happens. But if it doesn't... Enjoy!

* * *

 **THE SCARLET FOX**

* * *

For a moment Sherlock simply stares at the intruder, open-mouthed.

In fairness, she is by far the prettiest interloper he has ever found in his quarters so he feels that he might be forgiven for the lapse.

For her hair is down, her hood too. His eyes trace a fine, upturned nose. Pink, thin lips. Her pretty face is heart-shaped, a small dimple etched into her left cheek. Her skin is pale and fresh, sprayed with freckles as a wren's egg is and her wide brown eyes are bright. Merry. They are rimmed with thick, sooty lashes.

 _As outlaws go, she's really rather fetching._

She's wearing the same scarlet tunic and hooded cloak she wore the last time they met, and she's still armed to the teeth. (The only thing missing is her quiver and bow, billy-club and scimitar are both visible). She holds his stiletto knife- the one he threatened her with the other day- in her hand and she's idly turning it over and over, watching in fascination as the blade catches the light.

Sherlock knows he ought to find this threatening, but he doesn't.

 _No, his heart may be hammering but threatened is the last thing he feels._

"It's a fine knife," she says when she notices him staring. "I didn't get a chance to look at it the other day."

"It was a gift," Sherlock says roughly, clearing his throat. "From someone I helped."

She smiles and it is lovely. "I thought as much," she says. "Your reputation, as you no doubt know, precedes you even here, Master Holmes."

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, about to start regaling her with the tale as he moves into the room. Unfortunately for him however, he is both drunk and unfamiliar with his surroundings, something he feels acutely when he trips on an inconveniently-placed rug and stumbles forward.

He manages to catch himself, just in time.

When he straightens up he surveys his guest coolly, daring her to mock him. The large brown eyes twinkle with mischief but she says nothing, merely puts his blade down upon the mantle and holds her hands out to warm them by the fire.

She seems relaxed, calm, but then Sherlock tells himself not to be fooled by her body-language.

She had, after all, managed to convince him that she was a boy not long ago.

"You're not asking any of the questions I thought you'd ask," she says conversationally. She must hear him move into the room for she turns her head, gives her next words over her shoulder. "I rather thought you'd be either yelling for the guards or trying to rid me of my clothing-"

It doesn't happen often but Sherlock feels his cheeks redden.

He can't help the embarrassment which claw up through him when he remembers their kiss from the other night.

He clears his throat again. "I'm not the sort to call out," he begins and the smile she shoots him turns positively sinful. He belatedly realises his words could be taken two ways and he feels his cheeks heat even more, annoyance bubbling up in him at his reaction.

 _Damnation, man,_ he tells himself. _Pull yourself together. You're talking like the greenest boy in the shire which we both know you are not._

It doesn't matter though; his tongue seems to have failed him. And besides, she's left the fire, sidled up to him. She's picked up his blade again and she hefts it in her hand as she approaches, the knife held playfully between thumb and forefinger.

It glitters wickedly in the firelight.

When she's right in front of him she reaches out with her other hand, asking for his palm. He hesitantly places his hand in hers and she smiles, stroking her thumb soothingly against his wrist even as she pulls, indicating that he should straighten his arm. He swallows rather noticeable but he does what she asks. Holding his gaze she takes the blade, slides it playfully along the sleeve of his shirt, a safe enough distance from his flesh not to be dangerous…

The linen cleaves in two and it's the most ridiculous thing but they both take in a sharp breath.

They both blink at one another.

"As I said," she murmurs, her gaze tumbling floor-wards. "A fine blade, Master Holmes."

Now her cheeks redden, the scarlet more than enough to match his.

"It's not the weapon, it's the hand wielding it which makes it effective," Sherlock murmurs, twisting the hand she's holding so that now they're palm to palm.

The feel of her skin against his is hot- No, it positively scorches him.

She looks up at him at his words though, her tongue wetting her lip. Her pupils dilate, black fanning out against the brown and he can feel it, feel his heart stutter in his chest. Feel his pulse jump. He is acutely aware when he swallows, her eyes darting from his face to his Adam's apple and back again, lingering for hairsbreadth on his lips-

And then, without quite giving himself permission to, he's kissing her.

Pulling her roughly against him, his mouth hard on hers.

Their bodies slam together, heat to heat, strength to strength and it's absolutely intoxicating, how good it feels. How wanted. How necessary.

She pulls back just long enough to catch her breath. Look up at him. "Now let's find out if you're really not the sort to cry out, eh, Master Holmes?" she says and her voice is taunting. Eager.

She nips at his throat. His lip. Without answering he kisses her again.

She lets out an impatient, unladylike, delightful noise and pushes him back towards his bed, the blade still in her hand, her eyes burning. His backside hits against the tacked mattress and before he can stand she's pressing against him, panting, the blade held once again against the fabric of his shirt.

"You teased me," she says. "That night in the forest, the thoughts you put in my head. I wanted… I wanted to…"

Sherlock grins at her. Pulls her to him by her hips, her legs instinctively parting as he grinds against him.

He knows now, what she's talking about.

"You wanted to cut me out of my clothes, didn't you?" he taunts. His hands come up, unclasp her cloak and push it from her shoulders. _He has already decided that her tunic will be next_. "You enjoyed tying me up," he hisses in her ear as he pulls the rough garment over her head, "you wanted to do more…"

Her free hand snakes into his hair. Clutches sharply and tugs, the pain drawing a gasp from him.

"I didn't do anything to you that you didn't want me to do," she retorts. She pushes him backwards, kneeling over him. Her breasts press forcefully into his chest, heat and pressure through the thin fabric of his shirt.

 _God's blood, he wants the damn thing off_.

"I felt how you reacted to me," she's muttering. "I felt this-" Her hand- the one with the blade in it- strays down and flattens the blade handle against his cock- "grow hard for me.

"I felt it then and I feel it now, how much this beautiful, prick-proud organ wishes to be buried inside me-"

"Then show me."

And he pulls the stiletto blade free from her fingers, slams it onto the bed beside her. She pushes him again, her hands going to his shirt and pulling it over his head, apparently too impatient to cut him out of it. Too impatient to even stop kissing him-

 _Not that Sherlock's going to complain about that._

Instead he continues to kiss her. Continues to grind his body against hers. When he's free of the shirt she yanks his head down to her, slides his tongue into her mouth to tangle passionately with her own. She presses him further onto the bed even as she crawls onto his body, straddling him, her small, clever hands moving down to unlatch his leggings and pull them down and away-

He responds by yanking at her hose, pulling them roughly down to bare her backside, then her thighs.

They wrestle together, unable to stop touching for long enough to get free of their clothing but somehow they make do.

The last of their clothing comes free and as their flesh meets Sherlock lets out a long, hissing sigh of pleasure. Hers matches it. He lets one hand curl at her hip, even as the other snakes up to fill his palm with the flesh of her breast. It feels divine, even more when he squeezes and she throws her head back, eyes closed, lip bitten in rapture. _She's so beautiful, like this_. She lets out another growl, lower, earthier, and he honestly thinks he's never been this hard-

 _He honestly doesn't think he'll ever be as hard again_.

Her hand moves down to grasp his cock firmly, hold it steady as she moves over him. He feels her body parting wetly as he enters her and he can't help it, he lets out a gusty, loud moan.

She grins. Her pleasure is beautiful and terrible to look at.

"Not the sort to call out, eh?" she asks and Sherlock lets out a string of curses. Pushes himself roughly up into her until she lets out a cry of her own.

"At least we have something in common," he hisses and she laughs, a low, beautiful sound that echoes through the chamber like music.

"Aye, that we do," she says. "Though I'd wager it's not the only thing."

And she presses her hips against his just as forcefully, the pleasure pulling an answering grunt from his lips. Her eyes open, she looks down at him and he swears her gaze could incinerate him.

"Now shut up and stop teasing me, Master Holmes," she bites out. "I believe we both know what we want…"

And with those words she, there's no other words for it, she rides him. Takes him with a force of passion he'd never honestly thought a woman capable of. She rises and falls on his cock, her mouth devouring him, her hands everywhere. Sherlock can do nothing but try to keep up. Do nothing but enjoy the pleasure he's found. Because it feels rough. Debauched. Out-of-control and wonderful. The bed rocks with the force of it; His voice grows hoarse and his breath becomes impossible to find but still she doesn't stop.

He doesn't think she will ever willingly stop.

And when he hears her come, when she buries her head in his shoulder and moans her completion, the sound damn near tips him over.

It's a mere two or three strokes and he finds himself climaxing, tumbling over that crest as he buries his head against her breasts. They slump together, thoroughly spent, and he can't help it, he presses kisses to her cheek. Her forehead.

She is gentle and sleepy, now she's been sated.

He does not mean to fall asleep but he can't help it, the needs of his body for once slipping free of his will and making its own way.

When he wakes up in the morning, he finds that he is alone.


	4. The Well-Bedded Bridegroom

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. This is the final chapter, and I'd like to thank everyone who's read: Thank you. And as usual, thanks for their reviews go to Moonunit, Katya Jade, Poodle warriors, shazzykins, LadyK1138, likingthistoomuch, mslestat76, coloradoandcolorado1, applejacks0808, Rosa Calletti, buttercup59 and Bekah1218. Enjoy!

* * *

 **THE WELL-BEDDED BRIDEGROOM**

* * *

Sherlock slowly sits up, looks about the room in the pale morning light.

His hands move down to trace the sheets and furs of his bed but they're cold- So clearly his Mistress Thief has been gone for quite some time.

He feels an unaccountable twist of disappointment at the thought.

As he does so his fingers stray through something cold and sticky, something which is slicked to the sheets. He frowns, brings his hands up to his face and they are streaked in scarlet. Viscous, wet scarlet.

He leans in, sniffs and his first suspicion is confirmed: it's blood. _Blood._

This is, he must admit, the sort of realisation that wakes a man up of a morning.

A jolt goes through him, leaving him feeling nauseous. He pulls aside the covers, looks down at his naked body and- yes. There, streaked across his thighs, his belly and member. Nestled into the thick hair at his cock's root. Blood. Not a large amount of it but enough to be noticeable. Enough to lead to an inescapable conclusion, one he likes not one jot.

He'd debauched a virgin last night, for all that her forwardness had led him to believe her experienced.

He'd taken the maidenhead of a young woman under his future wife's roof, when he was inside her home for less than a day.

Sherlock begins swearing to himself in every language he knows, starting with Latin, as he contemplates what he's done. For while he might not be the most diplomatic or sentimental of men, even he must admit that such a deed would seem to make him naught but a cad, a thoughtless user of women. _And an insulter of his new bride, to boot_. The thought is abhorrent: He's seen the sort of damage such behaviour can inflict, what it does to those women it's inflicted _on_ -

And yet, he tells himself, did she not pursue him? Did _she_ not sneak into _his_ room, after having first caught him on the road, tied him up, undressed him and then wantonly kissed him when he was in no position to fight back?

And did she not appear to have enjoyed herself as much as he, last night? Had she not given as good as she'd gotten? God's blood, she'd exhausted him, fucked him into the mattress and then disappeared when she was done with him-

None of which makes any difference, he reminds himself sharply.

 _That is absolutely not the point._

He is under his future wife's roof and he has- judging by the ease with which his thief both entered and left his quarters- deflowered a member of that future wife's household.

 _That is not the sort of behaviour one wants in a bridegroom, even he knows that._

As he thinks this he hears footsteps padding along the floor outside his chambers. Their weight, as well as the sound of knife, mace and keys jingling with each step, tells him that it's Gregory de la Strade. With a hiss of annoyance Sherlock hops from his bed, flinching as his skin is hit by the frigid morning hair. The stone floor is freezing against his bare feet and he hops from one to the other, dreadfully missing his socks (which his Lady Thief had flung somewhere inconceivable last night, possibly never to return). Yanking one of the furs off the bed he wraps is around his torso, searching the room desperately for both the wash basin and chamber pot he knows the servants must have left him last night-

As he spies both, de la Strade reaches his room and knocks heavily on his door.

"Master Holmes," he calls, his voice disgustingly chipper and bright. "Master Holmes, Lady Mo- Em, Lady Margaret has declared that she is fit enough to see you.

"She bids you join she and her father in the kitchens, that you may break your fast together."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock huffs, desperately hoping that the castle's Man-At-Arms won't open the door and see his predicament. Something tells him de la Strade is not the sort of man to take a female servant being debauched lightly. _And he certainly doesn't want to have to explain what he's done._ "Yes, tell her I'll be there as quickly as I can…"

Inspiration hits and he takes some of the water in his wash-basin, begins pouring it loudly into the chamber pot.

He hears de la Strade's hmm of realisation and smiles.

"Beg pardon," the other man says. "There's no rush. Lady Margaret will be downstairs for a long time yet, she's waiting for her father-"

"I shall join her- em, them- shortly," Sherlock calls, desperately hoping Gregory won't open his chamber door but he needn't have worried: He can hear the other man shifting, sorting through his keys.

Clearly his mind has moved to other matters.

"Right you are," the other man says. "I'll pass that along to Lady Molly…"

And with a cheerful whistle, he takes off. Sherlock hears him moving down the length of the corridor and away, his weapons and keys still swinging at his hip. With a martyred sigh Sherlock rakes his unbloodied hand through his hair, trying to calm himself and regain his sense of equilibrium. His sense of purpose. _It seems to desert him, when it comes to the matter of his Lady Thief_. With a small sigh he takes what's left of the water and cleans his hands, his fingernails, washing the blood carefully off. When he's finished he finds a rag and does the same with his belly, his thighs. His cock.

The water is so cold it's acutely unpleasant but he forces himself to endure it.

 _There are, after all, worse things he could have to endure._

And when he can put things off no more he dresses himself. Prepares to meet his future bride. He wishes he could give a better account of himself, should she ask how he slept. But such wishes are futile, and he will not indulge them. No matter the identity of his mysterious virgin visitor last night, he must needs treat his new wife with the respect due to her today.

So he pulls open the door, squares his shoulders and steps out into the morning chill, head held high, eyes distant. Daring anyone to address him. _In London, his expression scared servants just on general bloody principles._ He marches through the castle, eyes cold, distant. Unmoved.

But behind this façade, of behind it the memory of last night burns, a memory he knows he should be ashamed of.

Unfortunately for both he and Lady Margaret Hopville, however, shame is one of the few skills he has never quite mastered- _Not that he's ever really been tempted to try._

* * *

It doesn't take him long to find the kitchen, despite the size of the castle.

Most such fortresses have a similar layout and the smell of cooking is always an easy one to spot.

So he follows his nose and follows his stomach, tries not to think about the… misjudgement he made last night. _His Lady Thief will have to be forgotten_. When he enters the kitchens though, he is surprised to find the lady of the manor- judging by her heavy pink silk gown- sitting at a table, chatting amiably to her servants.

She seems utterly unaware of his presence.

There's something though… Something curious, about her.

Something he can't quite put his finger on.

Sherlock stops, stares. Takes in as much as he can of her before she sees him. Lady Margaret is sitting with her back to him, chatting animatedly with an older, dark-haired woman in a homespun frock. Every so often she raises a heavy pewter goblet to her lips, taking a sip of what Sherlock rapidly ascertains is buttermilk before beginning to speak again in a lilting, low voice. She looks animated. Happy.

Her dark, plaited hair almost glints in the early morning light.

Her form is slim, delicate almost. Her hands, which he can see every time she gesticulates to the older woman, are pale. The fingers are long and elegant, more hardened and marked than one might expect from a gentlewoman and it's that, that one small fact which suddenly- belatedly- makes it all come together in his head.

His thief's ease, in finding him on the London Road.

His thief's ease, in sneaking into and out of his chambers when he's ensconced inside one of the largest, most impressive castles in Britain.

His thief's knowledge of him, knowledge which went beyond what might be gleaned from the gossip of servants or visitors from London. Knowledge which might better suit a father, out to find information about a potential suitor before he allowed that suitor to court his child.

It's obvious, when Sherlock thinks about it. Elementary, almost.

Any fool should have seen it, though he did not.

For his Lady Thief and his soon-to-be Lady Wife are one and the same person, that much is obvious.

 _Well,_ he finds himself thinking _. Perhaps I shall have to thank Mycroft for arranging this marriage, after all_.

At the thought he lets out a loud, delighted bark of laughter and instantly the older female servant looks up. Hastens to her feet and drops a curtsy, mumbling apologies that she didn't see him there while Sherlock waves her words away.

"You couldn't have known, I assure you," he tells her, still staring in amusement at Lady Margaret, who has yet to stand and look at him.

He can't help but note however that the back of that pale, long throat of hers is turning decidedly pink.

He says nothing though, lets the silence stretch out. He does so enjoy devilling the people he likes. _And it would seem he really rather likes his bride-to-be._ The servant, one Mistress Hudson, bustles around him, demanding to know what he wants to break his fast and he smiles. Tells her to give him whatever her Lady's having, that such is more than good enough for an interloper like he.

The older woman harrumphs but when he looks at her out of the corner of his eye, she's smiling fondly at him.

When she notices his attention however she scolds, tells him to sit down and not stay standing in a lady's presence or was he raised by a pack of wolves?

So with slow, measured steps Sherlock walks over to Lady Margaret and says hello. Sits down on the bench beside her. She has yet to raise her head or answer his greeting, but now that he's sitting next to her he can see her entire face is absolutely scarlet.

Her hands are now clenched tightly together, in her lap.

Without saying anything, without asking permission, he reaches under the table and brusquely takes one of those hands in his. Squeezes it.

He'd rather not think about why, but suddenly his heart is pounding like a drum.

At this she finally looks up at him and he recognises her, recognises the young outlaw he'd met on the road, the young outlaw he'd taken to bed.

 _She's absolutely lovely_.

"Hello again," he whispers and he makes sure to keep his voice even. Friendly.

He doesn't want to frighten her. He doesn't want her thinking he's upset.

Lady Margaret blinks up at him. Swallows. Her little pink tongue darts out of her mouth to wet her lips and Sherlock feels a jolt go through him at the sight, straight to his groin.

He rather suspects this reaction is written on his face, because-

"Hello, Master Holmes," she whispers and now she's smiling. Grinning, really.

 _Again he thinks that she's absolutely lovely._

For a moment the two stare at one another, silent. They're utterly unaware of the world around them.

And then Lady Margaret looks over his shoulder to make sure Mistress Hudson isn't watching and she brings his hand to her lips. Presses a small, fierce little kiss to it, her head bowed over it as she speaks.

"I was wondering if I'd see you this morning," she's saying. "I understand you had a rather… trying night." She blanches. "I got rather carried away: I'm sorry."

"I'm bloody well not." Sherlock smiles at her action and her words, waiting until she's moved his hand from her mouth to reach down and press a similarly small, similarly fierce little kiss to her lips.

Mistress Hudson smacks him with a cook-rag when she sees it but it really doesn't faze him.

Instead he continues kissing his new bride, servants and manners be damned. _Everyone who isn't the Lady Margaret be damned._ And when Lady Margaret and he finish their porridge and rise to tour the gardens- Lord Hopville still not having made an appearance- their arms slip easily together, their ease with one another obvious for everyone to see.

Sherlock finds that he can't stop grinning.

"Be careful out there," Mistress Hudson calls as they leave, "I don't want either of you getting into mischief."

Sherlock's smile is innocence itself. "Worry not, Mistress Hudson, Lady Margaret is more than able to protect me."

And with that they sweep out of the kitchen and into the life awaiting them beyond.

* * *

Guilllaume, (known as Sherlock), Count of Beckley and High Sheriff of Yorkshire would go on to live a long and happy life with his wife, Lady Margaret.

He would investigate widely and rule well, bringing more peace to the wild counties of the border than any Sheriff before or since.

It is an odd fact of his tenure, however, that despite his many stratagems and cunning plots, he never managed to capture the renowned champion of the poor and outlaw known as The Scarlet Fox-

Rather he managed to get captured by the outlaw on no more than eighteen separate occasions.

Once, he was even kidnapped twice in the same year.

Each time he was returned to his wife and family unscathed however- And Lady Molly never seemed worried when she discovered he'd been taken.

"The road through Dalby Forest is dangerous," she would say, "but then so is my husband."

And that would, quite simply, be that.


End file.
